NEXT STOP WILLOUGHBY...I MEAN, HURLEYVILLE

My weird dream this past Saturday night was so vivid that I told my son Andrew immediately. Halfway through my recital he told me, "How many times have I told you not to eat Vienna sausages, yellow onions and sauerkraut right before bed?" When I continued, his arched eyebrow suggested that he thought I was crazy. Afterwards, he meshed some industrial-strength sarcasm with some constructive insights and theorized what it all might mean. Now, all you amateur dream interpreters, its your turn to give me feedback ...or at least a bunch of snide and snappy remarks.

I BET IF SIGMUND FREUD, (1856-1939), WAS MY ANALYST, AFTER HEARING ABOUT THIS DREAM, HE WOULD HAVE TURNED HIS BACK ON PSYCHOANALYSIS FOR THE MENTAL STABILITY OF A JOB AT THE CAR WASH .

My dream reminded me of the, "A STOP IN WILLOUGHBY," episode from the original, "TWILIGHT ZONE." It was the thirtieth show of the first season, (premiering May 6, 1960). The main character was a successful advertising executive who was burnt-out at work and had a miserable home life.
THE MASTER OF MACABRE, ROD SERLING, (1924-1975), IS MOST FAMOUS FOR THIS AWARD WINNING SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGY SERIES. DURING ITS FIVE SEASONS, HE WROTE 92 OF THE 156 EPISODES AND APPEARED AS THE HOST/NARRATOR, IN ALL OF THEM.

Serling's opening narration in the, "A STOP IN WILLOUGHBY," episode was:

This is Gart Williams, age thirty-eight, a man protected by a suit of armor all held together with one bolt. Just a moment ago, someone removed that bolt. Mr. Williams' protection fell away and left him a naked target. He's been cannonaded this afternoon by all the enemies of his life. His insecurity has straddled him with humiliation and deep rooted disquiet about his own worth has zeroed in him and blown him apart. Mr. Gart Williams ad agency exec, who in just a moment will move into the Twilight Zone--in a desperate search for survival.

On Mr. Williams' sleepy, commuter train ride home, he dreams of being back in 1888. His dream then comes alive as the train and its riders are transformed to that period. The old-fashioned conductor then calls out, "Next stop Willoughby." At the depot, Williams sees a quiet, idyllic community. He hesitates and is sorry that he missed his opportunity to get off. The next day Williams dreams again and this time, he gets the courage to check-out the town. However, in his depressed stupor, he is actually jumping to his death from his speeding commuter train.

BEFORE HIS FATEFUL ARRIVAL IN WILLOUGHBY, WILLIAMS HAS MANY QUESTIONS FOR THE CONDUCTOR.

Serling closed that episode with this narration:

Willoughby? Maybe its wishful thinking nestled into a hidden part of a man's mind, or maybe its the last stop in the vast design of things or perhaps for a man like Gart Williams who climbed on a world that went too fast, its a place around the bend where he could jump off. Willoughby? Whatever it is, it comes with sunlight and serenity and is part of the Twilight Zone.

The opening scene of my Twilight Zone-like dream is a beautiful, sunny day in my old neighborhood's, Canarsie Park. I am playing stickball with my son Andrew. The two-prong significance is, my boy almost never participates in sports and I played stickball with my dad there once when I was about twelve...and it was a great moment in my life.

Andrew and I interrupt our game to look for a restroom. Suddenly, we're standing in front of one of the men's rooms where I work. I recognize MARKT, a kid of little significance, from my childhood. While making introductions, I tell my son that this adult had moved away in 1967 after sixth grade. I then whisper to Andrew, "I wonder if he remembers this." Then I tell MARKT, the time in 4th grade after lunch when he raised his hand and said, "I smell doody."

Our wicked-witch teacher was deranged and extremely mean. She snarled, "Everyone, check your shoes." My seat was last in the first row and MARKT was last in the sixth row. So across the nearly empty back of the room, I got a clear view of the bottom of his left shoe. Caked into the arch of his Oxford, was a moist wad of presumably dog poo. Then other students noticed that with every step MARKT had taken, he left a trail of dog dirt dollops. Rather than call the custodian, our shrewish teacher disgraced him. She demanded that he get in his hands and knees with paper towels and wipe the floor throughout the classroom, out the door and down the hall. Forty-six years later, my sympathy for him is still acute because she doled-out plenty of other abuse, my way too.

In the dream, MARKT didn't recall the incident. But he wanted to play stickball with us. I said, "Okay." He said, "I gotta tell my wife." When MARKT went into the ladies room, I told Andrew that MARKT was a lefty and never swung until he had two strikes. I said, "I'll throw him two fastballs down the middle and finish him with a slow screwball...and I guarantee, he never swings the bat.

MARKT never returns. Andrew disappeared when we went outside to the valet parking area. An attendant brought me a tired, old horse. I mounted up. The ride was a slow process but I wound up in the countryside. In the middle of stinky cow pastures and wide open spaces, I saw a, WELCOME TO HURLEYVILLE, billboard, (there is no such town in New Jersey and I doubt I've been any place with that name). Everything is pleasant like Willoughby until cars start whizzing by me. A few drivers stick their head out the window and tell me to get off the road. I caught eye-contact with one and he gave me the middle finger.

I was wishing that Andrew (currently a driver's license permit holder), was with me to appreciate this lack of roadway etiquette. Further along as this rural, two-lane thoroughfare became more residential, my butt became saddle sore. While getting off the horse, I make a mental note to write a blog about these experiences, (remembering that mental note might be the only reason I recall this dream). When I dismount, I notice I'm barefoot and horse crap is everywhere...I cautiously tip-toe along.

When I turned onto a busy city street, the horse vanished. I am now on the promenade, between state office buildings, in Trenton New Jersey, (it should be noted that we are beginning the process of shopping for Andrew's college and The College of New Jersey, formerly Trenton State is an early, serious contender).

THE TRENTON STATEHOUSE AND CAPITOL BUILDING...OF COURSE, SOMETIMES, IN REGARD TO SYMBOLISM, A DOME IS JUST A DOME.

Along the walkway, there is a crush of pedestrians coming and going in every direction. I see a friend/coworker (JOEMAC). We're going the same way and chat as we sift through the crowd. When I look up, a three-headed man crosses our path. I whisper to JOEMAC, "You see that!" He said, "Yeah, but don't look back." Of course, I look back and the center head turns to face me. He looks like an angry/fierce version of TV pitchman Billy Mays. He gives me a dirty look...and I wake up, (Andrew was a big fan of Mays and in my boy's own way, he mourned the spokes person's untimely passing).

ANDREW'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN HERO, BILLY MAYS, HALLOWEEN 2009.

Now picture my dream as if it were the, "A STOP IN HURLEYVILLE," episode of the Twilight Zone. I would imagine that Rod Serling's closing narrative might've sounded like this:

Hurleyville? Maybe its wistful thinking nestled into a part of a man's mind. Or maybe its the last stop in the vast design that links generations. Or perhaps its a place or a temptation for a man like Edelblum who clings to the memories and monsters of the past to preserve and keep safe, from fear, dissatisfaction and evil, the worrisome vision of his legacy. Hurleyville. Whatever it is, like everything else in the Twilight Zone, it comes with sunlight and serenity packaged together with pain, grotesque beasts and plenty of feces.

Its obvious to me that I possess the mind of a sick man. So, before Freud comes back and minimizes my dream to a fantasy about having sex with an aardvark, please help me repair my, "Abbie Normal," brain. WAIT A SECOND, MAYBE THESE AARDVARKS ARE "ONTO" SOMETHING?

More importantly Igor, here's your challenge. Pick apart the mosaic of my skewed private world and let me know what you think!